THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


BEQUEST  OF 

Alice  R.  Hilgard 


MACMILLAN'S     STANDARD     LIBRARY 


,an  accompaniment' 
•*qf«- 


•»T1, 


& 


Copyright,  189? 

By  The 

Macmillan 

Company 


Reprinted 

September,  7905 

April,  1906 


of 


M852886 


•  .      •  .    .    T^^KjSG*^ 

..  . : :  rJr-^%5 

••©tv'.-:v> 


Lullaby  of  a  Lover  ..... 

Heart  and  Soul         . 

A  Dirge 

Stella,  the  only  planet  of  my  light 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his  . 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  does  not  wail  ? 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 

Spring  and  Melancholy 

Rosalynd's  Madrigal  . 

Phillis    .... 

Cupid  abroad  was  Mated  in  the  night    . 

Sweet  Content         . 

Eidola   .          . 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night    . 

Beauty,  sweet  love  !  is  like  the  morning  dew 

Spring   ....... 

Song  of  Motto  and  Perkin 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love    . 

Take,  O  take  those  lips  away 

Ariel's  Songs  .          .          .          .          . 

Man  and  Woman 


iltee  of  £>ong* 

Page 
Spring 39 

Winter 41 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind  .....  42 
Under  the  greenwood  tree  .....  44 
Hark!  hark!  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  ringi  .  .  45 

Fidele  . 46 

Sylvia 48 

O  mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ?    .         .         .49 
Song  of  Autolycus  .....         .         .       50 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death         .         .         .         .52 

That  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold  .         .       53 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds  ...  54 
Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ?  .  .  .  56 
When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time  .  .  .58 

To  Celia 60 

The  Sweet  Neglect          .         .         .         .         .         .61 

The  Shepherds'  Holiday 62 

Echo's  Song 64 

An  Ode  to  Himself          ......       65 

The  Invitation 67 

Good-Morrow         .          .          .         •         •         •         .68 

To  Phyllis 70 

Beauty  clear  and  fair         .         .          .         .         .          .72 

Invocation  to  Sleep  .          .         •         .         .          •        73 

Hymn  to  Pan 74 

For  Summer  Tune 75 

The  Manly  Heart 77 


Of 

Ptgc 

Phoebus,  arise  !.......       80 

Trust  not,  Sweet  Soul  !  those  curled  waves  of  gold         .       83 

The  Song  of  Celadyne 85 

Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows  .         .         .         .88 

To  Celia  Singing    .......       90 

Disdain  Returned    .          .          .          .  .  91 

Chloris  in  the  Snow         .          .          .          .          .          .92 

Delight  in  Disorder          .         .         .         .         .         -93 

To  Julia .         -94 

To  Meadows          .......       96 

To  the  Virgins,  to  make  much  of  Time        .         .         .98 

To  the  Rose 100 

To  Daffodils 101 

Corinna's  Maying  .          .          .          .          .          .          .103 

To  Daisies     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .      107 

To  Anthea  who  may  command  him  Any  Thing    .         .108 
To  One  saying  she  was  Old      .          .          .          .          .no 

Description  of  Castara      .          .          .          .          .          .112 

On  a  Girdle ,          .          .      1 1 5 

Go,  lovely  Rose  ! 116 

To  Chloris 1 1 8 

Stay,  Phoebus  !  stay  !  .          .          .          .          .119 

To  Flavia      .          .          .          .          .          .          .  1 20 

Whoe'er  she  be 122 

A  Ballad  upon  a  Wedding         .          .          .          .  1 26 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ?  .          .          .132 

Constancy     .         .         .         .         .         .         .  133 

W 


liter  of 

Page 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart         .          .  .  134 

To  Althea  from  Prison     .         .         .         .  .  .136 

To  Lucasta,  going  beyond  the  Seas     .          .  .  .138 

To  Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  Wars      .          .  .  .140 

The  Grasshopper    .          .          .          .          .  .  .141 

Cherry  Ripe 143 

Though  you  are  young,  and  I  am  old  .  .  145 

Amarillis       .          .          .          .          .          .  .  .146 

Where  she  her  sacred  bower  adorns    .          .  .  .148 

The  man  of  life  upright   .          .          .          .  .  .151 

The  peaceful  western  wind        .          .          .  .  1 5  3 

My  sweetest  Lesbia,  let  us  live  and  love       .  .  .      1 5  5 

Night  as  well  as  brightest  day  hath  her  delight  %  .      157 


M 


Lullaby  of  a  Lover    . 

Heart  and  Soul 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe   . 

Rosalynd's  Madrigal 

Cupid  abroad  was  'lated  in  the  night 

Eidola 

Spring 

The  Passionate  Shepherd    . 

Ariel's  Songs  .... 

Man  and  Woman      ... 

Winter  ..... 

Under  the  greenwood  tree  . 

The  Song  of  Autolycus 

Let  me  not  to  the  union  of  true  minds 

Echo's  Song    .... 

To  Phyllis       .... 

Hymn  to  Pan  .... 

The  Manly  Heart     . 

Trust  not         .... 

Chloris  in  the  Snow  . 

To  Julia  .          . 

Gather  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may 

Corinna's  Maying     . 

On  a  Girdle    .... 

Whoe'er  she  be 

I  prithee  send  me  back  my  heart 

To  Althea  from  Prison        .          . 

Cherry  Ripe    .... 

Amarillis  .... 

My  sweetest  Lesbia  . 


opp.  page 


4 
13 
16 

21 

24 
28 

32 

35 
38 
41 
44 
50 
54 
64 
70 
74 
77 
83 
92 

94 

98 

103 

"5 

122 

134 
I36 

'43 
I46 

155 


m 


Intpototon 


The  earliest  of  the  English  poets,  falling  asleep  in 
the  stable  as  he  watched  the  cattle  at  Whitby,  saw  a 
vision  and  heard  a  voice  saying  to  him,  in  tones  of 
authority,   "  Ccedmon,   sing"     So  Bede  tells  us  the 
secret  of  Caedmoris  inspiration  ;  not  foreseeing,  in  his 
delightful  simplicity,  that  he  was  showing  forth,  as  in 
a  parable,  the  chief  characteristics  of  English  poetry 
for  all  time  10  Come.     For  the  true  English  poet  has 
never  yet  lacked  the  vision  and  the  singing  voice,  and 
the  charm  of  the  song  has  come  largely  from  the  vision. 
There  have  been,  it  is  true,  periods  which  were  dis- 
tinctly lacking  in   inspiration  and  in   that  natural 
magic  which  is  the  mysterious  possession  of  the  poet 
by  the  grace  of  God;  but  these  periods  have  been  short, 
and  prophecies  of  a  better  time  have  never  been  wholly 
absent  from  them.     In  decadent  times  the  singing  tra- 
dition has  not  been  without  its  custodians,  and  in  those 

[xiii] 


31tttrofcuctiott 

ages  of  precision  and  regularity  of  form  which  are 
often  miscalled  classical  the  wild  woodland  note  has, 
from  time  to  time,  floated  over  the  garden  wall.  The 
vision  of  the  imagination  has  rarely  been  denied  to 
English  poetry,  and,  as  a  rule,  the  magic  of  the  musi- 
cal note  has  come  with  it. 

The  Lyric,  like  the  Ballad,  is  a  poetic  form  which 
goes  home  to  the  hearts  and  memory  of  people  at 
large ;  to  those  who  are  never  quite  at  ease  with  the 
Epic,  and  to  whom  the  Drama  seems  remote  and  alien. 
And  the  reason  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  Lyric  gives 
natural  and  direct  expression  to  those  emotions,  expe- 
riences, passions,  and  aspirations  in  which  men  share 
according  to  temperament,  sensitiveness,  and  fortune. 
Its  demands  in  the  way  of  natural  gifts  and  of  skill 
are,  in  the  last  degree,  exacting ;  but  it  is,  at  the  same 
time,  the  most  widely  popular  and  the  most  deeply 
loved  of  all  the  forms  of  verse.  Burns'  songs  are 
among  the  most  nearly  perfect  and  the  best-known  of 
modern  English  poems.  Their  perfection  is  beyond  the 
reach  of  a  man  of  lesser  genius,  and  yet  they  are  sung 
and  recited  by  those  who  have  no  adequate  sense  of 
their  quality,  no  intelligent  appreciation  of  their  magic 

[xivj 


31ntrotiuctton 

of  style.  In  the  Lyric,  at  its  best,  one  gets  the  gush  of 
pure  song  ;  the  overflow  of  that  invisible  stream  of  poe- 
try which  flows  through  the  life  of  man  as  rivulets 
flow  through  the  earth.  The  careless  rapture  of  the 
songs  which  Shakspeare  scatters  through  the  plays 
is  a  quality  which  brings  with  it  the  freshness  of 
unwasted  emotions,  of  an  imagination  which  runs 
almost  unconsciously  into  a  music  as  instinctive  as 
the  note  of  the  bobolink  or  the  lark,  as  free  and 
buoyant  as  the  ripple  of  mountain  streams.  And  yet 
nothing  which  the  poet  has  left  us  furnishes  more  in- 
dubitable evidence  of  his  genius. 

The  lyre  is  the  universal  instrument ;  its  supreme 
masters  have  been  few,  but  all  the  world  knows  and 
loves  it,  because,  more  intimately  than  any  other  in- 
strument, it  gives  voice  to  the  sorrows  and  joys  of 
life.  The  national  hymns  which  have  touched  the 
sources  of  patriotic  emotion  from  the  days  of  Tyrtceus 
to  those  of  Korner  and  of  "  The  Watch  on  the  Rhine  "/ 
the  odes  which  have  celebrated  great  occasions  or  given 
a  noble  setting  to  commanding  thoughts ;  the  love 
songs  of  the  troubadour,  the  trouvere,  the  minnesinger ; 
the  songs  of  nature  ;  the  hymns  of  praise ;  the  elegies 

[XV] 


^Introduction 

Jrom  Bion  to  Matthew  Arnold ;  the  sonnets  ;  the  vast 
volume  of  songs  which  children  learn  and  which  re- 
turn to  their  elders  in  quiet  hours  and  solitary  places, 
—  all  these  forms  of  verse  indicate  the  range  of  the 
Lyric  and  remind  us  that  it  is  closer  to  us  and  means 
more  to  most  men,  day  by  day,  than  any  other  form  of 
poetry.  To  English  readers  it  recalls  the  greatest  names 
and  the  most  ravishing  verse  in  our  literature ;  it  re- 
minds one  of  Shakspeare,  Milton,  Herrick,  Carew,  Cra- 
shaw,  Burns,  Keats,  Shelley,  Wordsworth,  Tennyson. 
But  many  as  are  the  forms  of  the  Lyric,  it  has  cer- 
tain characteristics  which  everywhere  mark  it,  and  in 
which  lie  the  sources  of  its  charm,.  The  true  Lyric 
presents  to  the  imagination  a  single  thought,  feeling, 
situation,  or  experience.  At  its  best  its  concentration 
gives  it  the  entire  power  of  the  highest  poetry ;  it  is 
like  a  deep,  narrow  stream  which  covers  but  a  little 
surface  in  its  flow,  but  has  the  speed  of  an  arrow. 
Not  a  line  is  superfluous,  not  a  word  wasted.  In 
the  famous  song  in  " Measure  for  Measure"  distinct- 
ness of  outline,  condensation  of  emotion,  imaginative 
suggestiveness,  are  combined  in  a  perfection  of  form 

which  is  one  of  the  finalities  of  language : 

[xvi] 


3|ntroUuctton 

Take,  oh  take  those  lips  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  foresworn  ! 

And  those  eyes,  like  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn. 

But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Seals  of  love,  but  sealed  in  vain. 

A  kindred  precision  and  imaginative  freedom  char- 
acterize  Wordsworth's  lines  to  the  "Daffodils"  The 
scene,  the  silence,  the  sentiment,  are  brought  home  in 
lines  how  few  and  with  what  simplicity  of  means  ! 
Nothing  could  be  more  poetic  than  the  material,  noth- 
ing more  free  from  artifice  than  the  method.  The 
poet  had  but  a  single  picture  in  his  mind  and  he 
has  conveyed  it  to  us  as  if  it  were  the  only  picture  in 
the  world.  Shelley  s  "  The  Cloud"  and  Keats'  " Ode 
on  a  Grecian  Urn  "  include  a  larger  group  of  details 
and  carry  the  mind  over  a  wider  surface  of  imagery, 
but  every  word  makes  the  central  idea  more  clear  and 
deepens  the  single  impression  which  the  poet  is  striv- 
ing to  produce. 

A  poetic  form  so  responsive  to  individual  tempera- 
ment, so  reflective  of  individual  experience,  could 

[xvii] 


introduction 

hardly  fail  to  disclose  the  impress,  in  subtle  no  less 
than  in  obvious  ways,  of  general  intellectual  and 
emotional  conditions ;  for  the  more  highly  gifted  a 
man  is,  the  more  sensitive  is  he  to  the  deeper  im- 
pulses and  tendencies  of  the  time  in  which  he  lives. 
He  may  not  move  with  those  tendencies  ;  he  may  even 
oppose  them;  but  whether  in  harmony  with  them  or 
in  antagonism  to  them,  he  will,  in  ways  past  his  own 
knowledge,  be  affected  by  them.  These  formative  ten- 
dencies are  often  sought  in  the  drift  of  public  affairs, 
in  the  stormy  currents  of  public  opinion,  but  they  more 
often  flow  far  below  the  surface  which  is  stirred  by 
these  obvious  movements.  Indeed,  so  deep  and  hidden 
is  the  central  tendency  of  an  age  that  it  often  becomes 
discernible  only  after  a  long  interval  of  time ;  the 
men  who  are  affected  by  it  often  fail  to  discover  it  in 
spite  of  the  most  eager  searching.  There  are,  more- 
over, in  different  periods,  atmospheric  qualities  which 
escape  contemporary  attention,  but  which  give  the  ex- 
pression of  the  life  of  a  period  in  all  forms  of  art 
a  distinctive  and  characteristic  charm.  How  these 
qualities  are  interposed  into  the  atmosphere  of  an 

age  and  diffused  by  it  is  a  question  which  has  rarely 

[  xviii  ] 


3|ntroDuction 

been  satisfactorily  answered ;  it  is  enough,  at  least  for 
enjoyment,  to  recognize  their  presence  and  to  feel  their 
charm. 

The  English  Lyric  has  rarely  lacked  musical  quality, 
but  the^e  is  one  long  stretch  of  years  during  which  this 
musical  quality  touched  the  limits  of  perfection  and 
the  verse  fairly  sings  itself  into  our  hearts.  Above 
the  tumult  of  Elizabeths  closing  years  and  of  the 
Revolution,  the  English  Lyric  is  heard  like  the  song 
of  the  lark  on  the  edges  of  the  storm.  The  lyrical 
note  of  that  period  has  the  music  of  the  human  voice 
in  it,  and  even  the  untrained  ear  knows  that  it  was 
written  to  be  sung,  not  read.  Why  this  singing 
note  was  at  the  command  of  almost  every  poet  of 
quality  between  the  birth  of  Shakspeare  in  1564 
and  the  death  of  Herrick  in  1674,  no  one  has  yet  told 
us.  It  was  rarely  heard  before  the  earlier,  and  it 
has  rarely  been  heard  since  the  later  date.  The  greater 
poets  of  this  century  have  not,  as  a  rule,  compelled  the 
composers  to  set  their  songs  to  music.  Tennyson, 
Swinburne,  Shelley,  are  masters  of  the  musical  form, 
but  they  are  not,  primarily,  singing  poets.  Their  har- 
monies are  perhaps  more  capacious  than  those  of  the 

[xix] 


later  Elizabethan  and  Caroline  poets  ;  but  the  singing 
note  is  rarely  heard  in  them. 

For  more  than  a  century  that  note  was  constantly 
heard  in  English  poetry.  It  came  mysteriously  and 
as  mysteriously  it  went,  and  that  is  perhaps  all  that 
can  be  definitely  said  about  it.  Certain  conditions  or 
facts  are,  however,  worth  remembering  in  this  connec- 
tion. There  was  still,  among  Shakspeares  contempo- 
raries and  immediate  successors,  an  instinctive  joy  in 
life ;  a  joy  which,  under  the  stimulus  of  the  imagi- 
nation, became  a  kind  of  rapture.  There  was  a  frank 
delight  in  the  beauty  of  the  world,  in  the  charms 
of  women,  in  the  pursuit  of  honour,  in  pleasure  of 
every  kind.  The  tragic  aspects  of  experience  ivere  per- 
haps never  more  deeply  felt,  but  with  this  clear  vision 
of  the  shadows  within  the  circle  of  fate  there  was 
also  deep  capacity  for  enjoyment.  There  was,  more- 
over, an  almost  universal  knowledge  and  love  of 
music.  The  English  people  were  still  merry,  and 
they  still  sang ;  perhaps  these  two  facts  bring  us  as 
near  an  explanation  of  the  presence  of  the  singing 
note  in  the  poetry  of  the  Seventeenth  century  as  we 
can  hope  to  come.  This  was  especially  true  of  the 


31ntroDuction 

Elizabethan  period.  "  Nobody  could  then  pretend  to 
a  liberal  education  who  had  not  made  such  progress 
in  Musick  as  to  be  able  to  sing  his  part  at  sight ;  and 
it  was  usual,  when  ladies  and  gentlemen  met,  for 
Madrigal  books  to  be  laid  before  them,  and  every  one 
to  sing  their  part."  Campion,  whose  charming  songs 
were  largely  recovered  by  that  very  intelligent  editor, 
Mr.  Bullen,  from  "  Books  of  Airs"  lets  us  into  the 
mood  if  not  into  the  practice  of  many  of  these  singers 
when  he  says :  "7  have  chiefly  aimed  to  couple  my 
words  and  notes  lovingly  together."  Words  and  notes 
were  never  far  apart  in  those  days  ;  poetry  and  mtisic 
had  not  been  divorced. 

No  poets  ever  differed  more  widely  in  aim, 
method,  manner,  and  gift  than  Shakspeare, 
Jons  on,  Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Suckling,  Lovelace, 
Herrick,  Carew,  Campion,  Waller,  and  their  con- 
temporaries, and  yet  they  hold  as  a  common  posses- 
sion the  faculty  of  free,  natural,  spontaneous  song ; 
song  which  is  often  wild,  rapturous,  touched  with 
a  beauty  which  has  appeared  only  at  long  intervals 
since  their  time ;  the  haunting  beauty  which  often 
rests  on  Shakspeare's  inimitable  lyrics.  The  care- 

Cxxi] 


31ntroDuction 

less  rapture,  the  delicious  freshness,  the  unpremedi- 
tated sweetness  of  this  singing  note,  was  not 
silenced  by  the  tumult  of  war.  It  was  heard  in 
the  prison  from  which  Lovelace  sent  his  tribtite  to 
divine  Althea,  and  in  which  he  found  that 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage. 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

But  the  long  struggle  brought  about  changes  of 
temper  and  feeling  which  destroyed  the  old-time 
spirit  of  mirth,  the  old-time  vivacity  and  gayety. 
The  licentious  and  noisy  mirth  which  followed  the 
Restoration  had  little  in  common  with  the  earlier 
delight  in  life ;  it  inspired  some  brilliant  comedies, 
but  the  stuff  of  which  true  song  is  made  was  not 
in  it. 

[xxii] 


^Introduction 

The  Seventeenth-century  song-writers  were  plain 
spoken,  and  they  loved  pleasure,  but  they  were  not 
corrupt;  there  was  too  much  vitality  in  them.  The 
love  of  women,  which  had  inexhaustible  attraction 
for  them,  and  which  they  have  clothed  in  all  man- 
ner of  charms,  is  distinctly  concrete  in  the  sim- 
plicity and  frankness  with  which  it  exalts  beauty 
of  face  and  form,  but  it  does  not  rest  in  any  kind 
of  visible  loveliness ;  there  is  a  touch  of  chivalry,  of 
romance,  of  exaltation,  of  mysticism  in  it.  It  is 
frank  and  often  sensuous,  but  the  note  of  morbid 
passion,  of  diseased  emotion,  is  absent.  It  is  far 
more  healthful  than  a  great  deal  of  verse  which 
is  more  guarded  in  expression,  because  it  is  natu- 
ral, and  it  is,  for  the  most  part,  innocent.  These 
old  poets  had  a  wholesome  love  of  the  beauty  of 
life,  and  it  must  be  frankly  said  of  them,  that  their 
dealing  with  certain  forms  of  that  beauty  was  far 
more  healthful  than  the  manner  and  attitude  of  some 
of  their  Puritan  successors.  They  felt  the  rich  loveli- 
ness of  the  world,  but  they  knew  also  that  it  was 
fleeting.  It  was  Herrick,  whose  hand  was  some- 
times far  too  free,  who  said: 

[  xxiii  ] 


3Introtmctton 

In  this  world,  this  Isle  of  Dreams, 
While  we  sit  by  sorrow's  streams, 
Tears  and  terrors  are  our  themes ; 

and  it  was    Carew   who  cried  out,    in  one  of   the 
finest  outbursts  of  lyrical  emotion: 

Oh,  love  me  then,  and  now  begin  it, 
Let  us  not  lose  this  present  minute  ; 
For  time  and  age  will  work  that  wrack 

Which  time  nor  age  shall  ne'er  call  back. 

It  is  this  union  of  deeper  feeling  with  gayety  of 
spirit  and  vivacity  of  temper,  which  gives  these 
masters  of  the  singing  lyric  their  enduring  charm. 
They  have  consummate  skill,  and  yet  they  seem  to 
have  caught  the  fresh,  untaught  melody  of  the  birds. 
They  are  capable  of  complete  abandon,  and  yet  they 
never  lose  the  instinct  for  order  and  symmetry ; 
they  are  as  free  from  self -conscious  ness  as  the  wild 
woodland  songsters,  whose  notes  we  hear  in  their 
songs ;  they  preserve  for  us  the  dewy  freshness  of 
a  morning  hour,  all  too  fleet,  as  we  look  back 
to  it  from  the  cares  and  labours  of  the  modern 

world.     They  had  the  magic  of  style  because  their 

[  xxiv  ] 


3dntto&uction 

hearts  were  young.  In  our  serious  time,  when 
even  the  study  of  literature  tends  to  become  a 
strenuous  endeavour  rather  than  a  free  and  joy- 
ous communing  with  the  human  spirit  in  its 
greatest  moments  and  its  freest  moods,  attention 
cannot  be  called  too  often  to  these  poets  of  love 
and  honour  and  the  beauty  of  the  world;  and  no 
apology  is  needed  to  accompany  or  explain  a  new 
excursion  into  a  field  already  often  traversed. 

It  is  worth  while  sometimes  to  sit  in  the  woods 
and  listen  to  the  stir  of  leaves  and  the  notes  of 
unseen  birds  without  any  thought  of  botany  or 
ornithology.  It  is  worth  while  to  feel  again  the 
rapture  of  the  morning,  while  care  and  toil  are 
forgotten. 

Good  morrow  to  the  day  so  fair. 
Good  morrow,  sir,  to  you ; 
Good  morrow  to  mine  own  torn  hair, 
Bedabbled  with  the  dew. 

HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE. 


[xxv] 


Lullab?  of  a  Lofcer 

SING  lullaby,  as  women  do 

With  which  they  bring  their  babes  to  rest ; 
And  lullaby  can  I  sing  too, 

As  womanly  as  can  the  best. 
With  lullaby  they  still  the  child; 
And  if  I  be  not  much  beguiled, 
Full  many  wanton  babes  have  I 
Which  must  be  stilled  with  lullaby. 

First,  lullaby  my  youthful  years; 

It  is  now  time  to  go  to  bed, 
For  crooked  age  and  hoary  hairs, 

Have  now  the  haven  within  my  head, 
[i] 


Lullaby  of  a  ILofcer 

With  lullaby  then  Youth  be  still, 
With  lullaby  content  thy  will; 
Since  courage  quails,  and  come  behind ; 
Go,  sleep !    and  so  beguile  thy  mind. 


Next,  lullaby  my  gazing  Eyes, 

Which  wonted  were  to  glance  apace ; 
For  every  glass  may  now  suffice 

To  show  the  furrows  in  my  face. 
With  lullaby  then  wink  awhile, 
With  lullaby  your  looks  beguile; 
Let  no  fair  face,  or  beauty  bright, 
Entice  you  eft  with  vain  delight. 


And  lullaby  my  wanton  Will, 

Let  Reason's  rule  now  rein  my  thought. 
Since  all  too  late  I  find  by  skill 

How  dear  I  have  thy  fancies  bought. 
With  lullaby  now  take  thine  ease, 
With  lullaby  thy  doubt  appease; 
For  trust  in  this,  —  if  thou  be  still, 
My  body  shall  obey  thy  will. 


Lullabp  of  a  Lofccr 

Thus  lullaby  my  Youth,  mine  Eyes, 

My  Will,  my  ware  and  all  that  was, 
I  can  no  more  delays  devise, 

But  welcome  pain,  let  pleasure  pass. 
With  lullaby  now  take  you  leave, 
With  lullaby  your  dreams  deceive ; 
And  when  you    rise  with  waking   eye, 
Remember  then  this  lullaby. 

—  George  Gascoigne. 


[33 


ana 


O  FAIR  !   O  sweet  !   when  I  do  look  on  thee, 

In  whom  all  joys  so  well  agree, 
Heart  and  soul  do  sing  in  me. 

This  you  hear  is  not  my  tongue, 
Which  once  said  what  I  conceived, 
For  it  was  of  use  bereaved, 

With  a  cruel  answer  strong. 
No  ;   though  tongue  to  roof  be  cleaved, 

Fearing  lest  he  chastised  be, 

Heart  and  soul  do  sing  in  me. 

O  fair  !    O  sweet  !    when  I  do  look  on  thee, 
In  whom  all  joys  so  well  agree, 

Heart  and  soul  do  sing  in  me. 
Just  accord  all  music  makes; 
[4] 


anD 


In  thee  just  accord  excelleth, 

Where  each  part  in  such  peace  dwelleth, 
One  of  other,  beauty  takes. 

Since,  then,  truth  to  all  minds  telleth 
That  in  thee  lives  harmony, 
Heart  and  soul  do  sing  in  me. 


O  fair!    O  sweet!    when  I  do  look  on  thee, 
In  whom  all  joys  so  well  agree, 

Heart  and  soul  do  sing  in  me. 

They  that  heaven  have  known  do  say, 

That  whoso  that  grace  obtaineth, 

To  see  what  fair  sight  there  reigneth, 
Forced  are  to  sing  alway : 

So  then,  since  that  heaven  remaineth 
In  thy  face  I  plainly  see, 
Heart  and  soul  do  sing  in  me. 


O  fair !    O  sweet !   when  I  do  look  on  thee, 
In  whom  all  joys  so  well  agree, 

Heart  and  soul  do  sing  in  me. 
Sweet,  think  not  I  am  at  ease, 

[5] 


J^eart  ana 

For  because  my  chief  part  singeth ; 

This  song  from  death's  sorrow  springeth, 
As  to  swan  in  last  disease : 

For  no  dumbness  nor  death  bringeth 
Stay  to  true  love's  melody : 
Heart  and  soul  do  sing  in  me. 

—  Sir  Philip  Sidney  > 


[6] 


ING  out  your  bells,  let  mourning  shows 

be  spread. 
For  love  is  dead : 

All  Love  is  dead,  infected 
With  plague  of  deep  disdain ; 

Worth,  as  naught  worth,  rejected, 
And  faith  fair  scorn  doth  gain. 
From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 
From  such  a  female  frenzy, 
From  them  that  use  men  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

Weep,  neighbours,  weep ;    do    you    not   hear  it 

said 
That  Love  is  dead  ? 

[7] 


&  Dirge 

His  deathbed,  peacock's  Folly; 
His  winding  sheet  is  Shame ; 

His  will,  False  Seeming  wholly  ; 
His  sole  executor,  Blame. 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

Let    dirge    be    sung,  and    trentals  rightly    read, 
For  Love  is  dead; 

Sir  Wrong  his  tomb  ordaineth 
My  mistress*  marble  heart; 

Which  epitaph  containeth, 
'Her  eyes  were  once  his  dart.' 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us ! 

Alas,  I  lie ;  rage  hath  this  error  bred ; 
Love  is  not  dead ; 

Love  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth, 
In  her  unmatched  mind, 

[8] 


0  Dirge 

Where  she  his  counsel  keepeth, 
Till  due  deserts  she  find. 

Therefore  from  so  vile  fancy, 
To  call  such  wit  a  frenzy, 
Who  Love  can  temper  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us. 

—  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


[9] 


TELLA,  the  only  planet  of  my  light, 
Light  of  my  life,  and  life  of  my  de- 
sire, 
Chief  good  whereto    my   hope    doth 

only  'spire, 
World  of  my  wealth,  and  heav'n  of  my 

delight ; 
Why  dost  thou  spend  the  treasure  of  thy 

spite 
With  voice  more  fit  to  wed  Amphion's 

lyre, 

Seeking  to  quench  in  me  the  noble  fire 
Fed  by  thy  worth,  and    kindled    by  thy  sight? 
And   all   in   vain:    for   while    thy    breath   most 

sweet 
With    choicest   words,   thy   words  with  reasons 

rare, 

Thy  reasons  firmly  set  on  Virtue's  feet, 
Labor  to  kill  in  me  this  killing  care 
O  think  I  then,  what  paradise  of  joy 
It  is,  so  fair  a  virtue  to  enjoy ! 

—  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 
[io] 


Y  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have 

his, 
By    just    exchange    one    for    another 

given  : 
I    hold   his   dear,   and   mine    he    cannot 

miss, 

There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven : 
My   true-love    hath    my  heart,  and    I 
have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps   him  and  me  in 

one, 

My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides : 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides  : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

—  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


'HAT  bird  so  sings,  yet  does  so  wail? 
O  'tis  the  ravished  nightingale. 
"Jug>    Jug>    Jug>    Jug>     teren,"     she 

cries, 

And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 
Brave    prick    song !     who   is't   now  we 

hear  ? 

None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear; 
Now    at    heaven's    gates    she    claps   her 

wings, 

The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings. 
Hark !    hark !    with  what  a  pretty  throat 
Poor  robin  redbreast  tunes  his  note ; 
Hark  how  the  jolly  cuckoo  sing, 
Cuckoo  to  welcome  in  the  spring; 
Cuckoo  to  welcome  in  the  spring ! 

— John  Lyly. 


UPID  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 
At  cards  for  kisses ;   Cupid  paid : 
He    stakes     his    quiver,    bow,    and 

arrows, 

His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  spar- 
rows ; 

Loses  them  too ;   then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 
Growing  on's  cheek   (but    none    knows 

how) ; 

With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 
And  then  the  dimple  on  his  chin; 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win: 
And  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes  — 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 
O  Love,  has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 
What  shall,  alas !  become  of  me  ? 

— John  Lyly. 


C'3] 


ant) 


THE  earth,  late  choked  with  showers, 

Is  now  arrayed  in  green  ; 

Her  bosom  springs  with  flowers, 

The  air  dissolves  her  teen  ; 

The  heavens  laugh  at  her  glory: 
Yet  bide  I  sad  and  sorry. 


The  woods  are  decked  with  leaves, 
And  trees  are  clothed  gay  ; 
And  Flora  crowned  with   sheaves 
With  oaken  boughs  doth  play, 

Where  I  am  clad  in  black 

In  token  of  my  wrack. 
[H] 


auD 


The  birds  upon  the  trees 

Do  sing  with  pleasant  voices, 

And  chant  in  their  degrees 

Their  loves  and  lucky  choices  ; 
When  I,  whilst  they  are  singing, 
With  sighs  mine  arms  am  wringing. 

The  thrushes  seek  the  shade, 
And  I  my  fatal  grave  ; 
Their  flight  to  heaven  is  made, 
My  walk  on  earth  I  have  ; 

They  free,  I  thrall;  they  jolly, 

I  sad  and  pensive  wholly. 

—  Thomas  Lodge. 


[15] 


LOVE  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck  his  sweet ; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his   feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast ; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest: 
Ah  !    wanton,  will  ye  ? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 

With  pretty  flight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 

The  livelong  night. 
[16] 


Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string; 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing ; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting: 
Whist,  wanton,  will  ye  ? 


Else  I  with  roses    every  day 
Will  whip  you  hence, 
And  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 

For  your  offence ; 
I'll  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  you  in ; 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin ; 
I'll   count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin; 
—  Alas  !    what  hereby  shall  I  win, 
If  he  gainsay  me  ? 


What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod  ? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

Because  a  god. 
Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 


And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be ; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee, 
O  Cupid !    so  thou  pity  me, 
Spare  not,  but  play  thee ! 

—  Thomas  Lodge. 


[18] 


OVE  guards  the  roses  of  thy  lips, 

And  flies  about  them  like  a  bee : 
If  I  approach  he  forward  skips, 
And  if  I  kiss  he  stingeth  me. 


Love    in     thine     eyes     doth     build    his 

bower, 

And  sleeps  within  their  pretty  shine; 
And  if  I  look  the  boy  will  lour, 

And    from    their    orbs    shoots    shafts 
divine. 

Love  works  thy  heart  within  his  fire, 
And     in     my     tears     doth    firm     the 

same; 
And  if  I  tempt  it  will  retire, 

And    of    my    plaints     doth    make    a 
game. 

[-9] 


Love !    let  me  cull  her  choicest  flowers, 
And  pity  me,  and  calm  her  eye ! 

Make  soft  her  heart !    dissolve  her  lours ! 
Then  will  I  praise  thy  deity. 

But  if  thou  do  not,  Love !    I'll  truly  serve  her 

In  spite  of  thee,  and  by  firm  faith  deserve  her. 

—  Thomas  Lodge. 


[20] 


UPID  abroad  was  'lated  in  the  night, 
His  wings  were  wet  with  ranging 

in  the  rain ; 

Harbour  he  sought :  to  me  he  took 
his  flight 

To   dry   his   plumes.     I    heard    the    boy 

complain ; 
I    oped    the    door,    and    granted    his 

desire ; 
I    rose    myself,  and    made  the  wag  a 

fire. 

Looking  more  narrow,  by  the  fire's  flame, 
I  spied  his  quiver  hanging  by  his  back ; 
Doubting  the  boy  might  my  misfortune  frame, 
I     would     have    gone,    for    fear    of    further 

wrack ; 
But   what    I    dread,  did   me,  poor  wretch, 

betide, 

For  forth  he  drew  an  arrow  from  his  side. 
[*'] 


abroad  toatf  'latefc  in  tlje  nigljt" 


He  pierced  the  quick,  and  I  began  to  start: 

A  pleasing  wound,  but  that  it  was  too  high  ; 

His  shaft  procured  a  sharp,  yet  sugared  smart. 

Away  he  flew,  for  why,  his  wings  were  dry  ; 

And  left  the  arrow  sticking  in  my  breast, 

That  sore  I  grieved  I  welcomed  such  a  guest. 

—  Robert  Greene. 


Content 


WEET   are   the  thoughts  that  savour 

of  content  ; 
The    quiet    mind    is    richer    than    a 

crown  ; 
Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber 

spent  ; 
The  poor  estate  scorns   Fortune's  angry 

frown  : 
Such   sweet    content,    such    minds,    such 

sleep,  such  bliss, 
Beggars    enjoy,    when    princes     oft    do 

miss. 


The  homely  house  that  harbours  quiet  rest, 
The  cottage  that  affords  nor  pride  nor  care, 
The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music  best, 
The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  modest  fare, — 
Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss : 
A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 

—  Robert  Greene. 


CtDoia 

ARE  they  shadows  that  we  see  ? 
And  can  shadows  pleasure  give? 
Pleasures  only  shadows  be, 
Cast  by  bodies  we  conceive, 
And  are  made  the  things  we  deem 
In  those  figures  which  they  seem. 

But  these  pleasures  vanish  fast 
Which  by  shadows  are  exprest; 
Pleasures  are  not  if  they  last, 
In  their  passage  is  their  best : 
Glory  is  most  bright  and  gay 
In  a  flash  and  so  away. 
C;«4] 


Feed  apace  then,  greedy  eyes, 
On  the  wonder  you  behold; 
Take  it  sudden  as  it  flies, 
Though  you  take  it  not  to  hold: 
When  your  eyes  have  done  their  part, 
Thought  must  length  it  in  the  heart. 

—  Samuel  Danitl, 


ARE-CHARMER  Sleep,  son  of  the 

sable  Night, 

Brother    to    Death,    in    silent   dark- 
ness born, 

Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light ; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  return. 

And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The     shipwreck     of    my    ill-adventured 

youth : 

Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 

Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow ; 
Never  let  rising  Sun  approve  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow: 

Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

—  Samuel  Daniel. 

[26] 


BEAUTY,    sweet    love!     is    like    the 

morning    dew, 
Whose    short    refresh    upon    the 

tender  green, 
Cheers  for  a  time,  but  still  the  sun  doth 

show 
And  straight  is  gone  as   it  had   never 

been. 
Soon  doth  it  fade  that  makes  the  fairest 

flourish ; 
Short    is    the    glory    of    the    blushing 

rose,  — 

The  hue  which  thou  so  carefully  dost  nourish 
Yet  which  at  length  thou  must  be  forced  to 

lose ; 

When  thou,  surcharged  with  burthen  of  thy  years, 
Shalt    bend    thy  wrinkles    homeward   to    the 

earth, 
And  that  in  Beauty's  lease  expired  appears, 

The  date  of  age,  the  kalends  of  our  dearth;  — 
But  ah,  no  more !    this  must  not  be  foretold ; 
For  women  grieve  to  think  they  must  be  old. 

—  Samuel  Daniel. 

[«7] 


SPRING,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant 

king; 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then   maids  dance  in 

a  ring, 
Cold    doth     not    sting,    the    pretty     birds    do 

sing, 

Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo ! 

The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and   play,  the   shepherds    pipe  all 

day, 

And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  put,  we-o-witta-woo. 


The  fields  breathe   sweet,  the    daisies    kiss    our 

feet, 

Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a-sunning  sit, 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo ! 
Spring  !  the  sweet  Spring ! 

—  Thomas  Nash. 


of  jftotto  anD 


Motto.    TELL  me,  thou  skilful  shepherd  swain  ! 

Who's  yonder  in  the  valley  set? 
Perkin.  O,  it  is  She  whose  sweets  do  stain 

The  lily,  rose,  the  violet. 

Motto.    Why  doth  the  Sun  against  his  kind, 
Stay  his  bright  chariot  in  the  skies  ? 

Per  kin.  He  pauseth  almost  stricken  blind 
With  gazing  on  her  heavenly  eyes. 

Motto.    Why  do  the  flocks  forbear  their  food 
Which  sometime  was  their  chief  delight? 

Perkin.  Because  they  need  no  other  good 
That  live  in  presence  of  her  sight. 


of 


ana  |Berfem 


Motto.    How  come  these  flowers  to  flourish  still, 
Not  withering  with  sharp  Winter's  death  ? 

Perkin.  She  hath  robb'd  Nature  of  her  skill, 

And  comforts  all  things  with  her  breath. 

Motto.    Why  slide  these  brooks  so  slow  away, 
As  swift  as  the  wild  roe  that  were  ? 

Perkin.  O,  muse  not,  shepherd  !  that  they  stay, 
When  they  her  heavenly  voice  do  hear. 

Motto.    From    whence    come    all    these    goodly 
swains 

And  lovely  girls  attired  in  green? 
Perkin.  From  gathering  garlands  on   the  plains 

To  crown  thy  Syl  ;  our  shepherd's  Queen. 

The  sun  that  lights  this  world  below, 

Flocks,  brooks,  and  flowers  can  witness  bear, 

These  shepherds  and  these  nymphs  do  know, 
That  Sylvia  is  as  chaste  as  fair. 

—  Michael  Dray  ton. 


[31] 


^aggfonate  ^epljcrt)  to 


COME  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 


passionate 


to  \)i&  Lofee 


A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs: 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-morning: 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

—  Christopher  Marlowe. 


[33] 


AKE,  O  take  those  lips  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 
And  those  eyes,  like  break  of  day. 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again  — 

Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain, 
Seal'd  in  vain ! 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[34] 


HERE  the  bee  sucks  there  suck  I : 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie; 
There  I  couch,  when  owls  do  cry : 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 
Under  the   blossom  that  hangs   on 
the  bough ! 

—  William  Shakespeare* 


[35] 


"Come  unto  fyt&t  ^elloto 


OME  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands : 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there; 
And,  sweet  Sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Hark,  hark  ! 

Bow-bow. 
The  watch-dogs  bark: 

Bow-wow. 

Hark,  hark!  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow ! 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[36] 


fatfjom  ftot  eft?  fet^r  lit*" 


ULL  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  : 
Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark !  now  I  hear  them,  — 
Ding,  dong,  bell. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[37] 


ana  anoman 


IGH  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more,  — 
Men  were  deceivers  ever, 
One  foot  in  sea  and  one  on  shore, 
To  one  thing  constant  never : 
— Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go, 
And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny, 
Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 
Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

Sing  no  more  ditties,  sing  no  more, 
Of  dumps  so  dull  and  heavy ; 
The  fraud  of  men  was  ever  so 
Since  summer  first  was  leafy : 

—  Then  sigh  not  so,  but  let  them  go, 

And  be  you  blithe  and  bonny, 

Converting  all  your  sounds  of  woe 

Into,  Hey  nonny,  nonny. 

t  — William  Shakespeare. 

[38] 


WHEN  daisies  pied  and  violets  blue 
And  lady-smocks  all  silver-white 
And  cuckoo-buds  of  yellow  hue 
Do  paint  the  meadows  with  delight, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men ;    for  thus  sings  he, 

CUCKOO ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo  :  —  O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear ! 

When  shepherds  pipe  on  oaten  straws 
And  merry  larks  are  ploughmen's  clocks, 
When  turtles  tread,  and  rooks,  and  daws 

[39] 


Spring 

And  maidens  bleach  their  summer  smocks, 
The  cuckoo  then,  on  every  tree, 
Mocks  married  men ;    for  thus  sings  he, 

CUCKOO ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo  :  —  O  word  of  fear, 
Unpleasing  to  a  married  ear ! 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[40] 


IIT^  T&y.--;Ci 

LVi  fclK-v^ 


HEN  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail ; 
When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul. 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 

Tu-whit ! 

Tu-who  !     A  merry  note  ! 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  about  the  wind  doth  blow, 

And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 
And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 

And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw; 
When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl  — 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 

Tu-whit ! 

Tu-who  !     A  merry  note  ! 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 

[41] 


LOW,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 
Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude; 
Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 
Because  thou  art  not  seen, 
Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh    ho !     sing    heigh    ho !    unto    the 

green  holly : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving 

mere  folly : 

Then,  heigh   ho !    the  holly ! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 
Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot: 
Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 
Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 
As  friend  remember'd  not. 


"  115loto,  bloto,  ttiou  tointej:  totnu  " 

Heigh    ho !    sing    heigh    ho  !    unto    the    green 

holly : 
Most  friendship    is  feigning,  most    loving    mere 

folly  : 

Then,  heigh  ho!    the  holly! 
This  life  is  most  jolly. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[43] 


NDER  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat  — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets  — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither ! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[44] 


ARK!    hark!    the  lark  at  heaven's  gate 

sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise, 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  May-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes : 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin, 
My  lady  sweet,  arise ; 
Arise,  arise. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[45] 


tffoele 


EAR  no  more  the  heat  o*  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages  ; 
Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 
As  chimney-sweepers  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak : 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust. 
[46] 


Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash 

Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash ; 

Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan  : 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[47] 


HO  is  Sylvia?     what  is  she, 

That  all  our  swains  commend  her  ? 
Holy,  fair,  and  wise  is  she ; 

The  heaven  such  grace  did  lend  her 
That  she  might  admired  be. 

Is  she  kind  as  she  is  fair  ? 

For  beauty  lives  with  kindness: 
Love  doth  to  her  eyes  repair, 

To  help  him  of  his  blindness; 
And,  being  help'd,  inhabit  there. 

Then  to  Sylvia  let  us  sing, 

That  Sylvia  is  excelling; 
She  excels  each  mortal  thing 

Upon  the  dull  earth  dwelling : 
To  her  let  us  garlands  bring. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 

[48] 


MISTRESS    mine,    where    are    you 

roaming  ? 
O    stay    and    hear !     your   true-love's 

coming 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low ; 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting  — 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love?    'tis  not  hereafter; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter; 
What's  to  come  is  still  unsure : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty, — 
Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-twenty, 
Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[49] 


Of 


WHEN  daffodils  begin  to  peer, 

With  heigh  !    the  doxy  over  the  dale, 

Why  then    comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ; 
For  the  red  blood  reigns  in  the  winter's  pale. 

The  white  sheet  bleaching  on  the  hedge, 

With  heigh  !    the  sweet    birds,  O,  how   they 
sing! 

Doth  set  my  pugging  tooth  on  edge  ; 
For  a  quart  of  ale  is  a  dish  for  a  king. 


^ong  of 


The  lark,  that  tirra-lyra  chants, 

With  heigh  !     with  heigh  !    the  thrush  and  the 


Are  summer  songs  for  me  and  my  aunts, 
While  we  lie  tumbling  in  the  hay. 

But  shall  I  go  mourn  for  that,  my  dear? 

The  pale  moon  shines  by  night  : 
And  when  I  wander  here  and  there, 

I  then  do  most  go  right. 

If  tinkers  may  have  leave  to  live 

And  bear  the  sow-skin  budget, 
Then  my  account  I  well  may  give 

And  in  the  stocks  avouch  it. 

Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a  : 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad,  tires  in  a  mile-a. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


OME  away,  come  away.  Death, 
And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 


My    shroud    of  white,    stuck    all    with 
yew, 

O  prepare  it ! 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it. 


Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My   poor    corpse,   where    my   bones    shall    be 
thrown : 

A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 

To  weep  there. 

—  William  Shakespeare 

[s»3 


HAT  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me 

behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few, 

do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against 

the  cold, 

Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late   the   sweet 
birds  sang: 

In  me  thou  seest  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest : 

In  me  thou  seest  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourished  by : 

This    thou    perceiv'st,    which     makes    thy    love 

more  strong, 
To  love  that  well  which    thou    must    leave   ere 


long. 


—  William  Shakespeare. 


C.53] 


ET   me   not   to  the  marriage  of  true 

minds 
Admit    impediments.      Love    is    not 

love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or    bends    with    the    remover    to    re- 
move : — 

O  no !    it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That   looks   on   tempests,  and   is   never 

shaken ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 
Whose   worth's   unknown,  although   his   height 
be  taken. 

Love's  not   Time's  fool,  though   rosy  lips   and 

cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come; 

[54] 


«  ilet  me  not  to  tlje  marriage  of  true 


Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  ev'n  to  the  edge  of  doom  :  — 

If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[55] 


HALL  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's 

day  ? 

Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  tem- 
perate : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds 

of  May, 

And   summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short 
a  date : 


Sometime    too    hot    the    eye    of   heaven 

shines, 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd : 
And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 
By    chance,    or    nature's    changing   course,    un- 
trimm'd. 


But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest; 

[56] 


3d  compare  tfjee  to  a  summer'*  Bap 


Nor   shall    Death   brag   thou  wanderest   in   his 

shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest:  — 

So  long  as  men  can   breathe,  or  eyes   can   see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and   this   gives    life  to  thee. 

—  William  Shakespeare. 


[57] 


HEN  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I     see     descriptions     of    the     fairest 

wights, 
And     beauty    making    beautiful     old 

rhyme 

In    praise    of   ladies    dead,    and    lovely 
knights ; 

Then  in  the   blazon   of  sweet  beauty's 

best 
Of   hand,    of  foot,    of  lip,   of   eye,   of 

brow, 

I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  exprest 
Ev'n  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 


So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all,  you  prefiguring ; 

[58] 


in  tty  chronicle  of  toatftefc  time  " 


And  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  still  enough  your  worth  to  sing  : 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present   days, 
Have    eyes    to   wonder,   but    lack    tongues    to 
praise. 

—  William  Shakespeart. 


[S9] 


Co  Celta 


RINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 
I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 
Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 
Not  of  itself,  but  thee ! 


—  Ben  Jonson. 


[60] 


Neglect 


STILL  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast  : 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed  : 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed  ; 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free: 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me, 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art, 

That  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

—  Ben  Jonson. 
[6,] 


First  Nymph. 

THUS,  thus  begin,  the  yearly  rites 
Are  due  to  Pan  on  these  bright  nights: 
His  morn  now  riseth  and  invites 
To  sport,  to  dances,  and  delights : 

All  envious  and  profane,  away ! 

This  is  the  shepherds'  holiday. 

Second  Nympb. 

Strew,  strew  the  glad  and  smiling  ground 
With  every  flower,  yet  not  confound ; 
The  primrose  drop,  the  spring's  own  spouse, 
Bright  day's-eyes,  and  the  lips  of  cows, 


The  garden-star,  the  queen  of  May, 
The  rose,  to  crown  the  holiday. 

Third  Nympb. 

Drop,  drop  you  violets,  change  your  hues 
Now  red,  now  pale,  as  lovers  use, 
And  in  your  death  go  out  as  well, 
As  when  you  lived  unto  the  smell : 

That  from  your  odour  all  may  say, 
This  is  the  shepherds'  holiday. 

—  Ben  Jonson. 


[63] 


LOW,   slow,    fresh    fount,    keep    time 

with  my  salt  tears : 
Yet   slower,    yet :    O    faintly    gentle 

springs : 

List  to  the  heavy  part  the  music  bears, 
Woe  weeps  out  her  division,  when  she 
sings, 

Droop  herbs  and  flowers, 
Fall  grief  in  showers, 
Our  beauties  are  not  ours ; 

O  I  could  still 
Like  melting  snow  upon  some  craggy  hill, 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  drop, 
Since  nature's  pride  is  now  a  withered  daffodil. 

— Ben  Jonson. 


[64] 


an  €>De  to 


HERE  dost  thou  careless  lie 

Buried  in  ease  and  sloth  ? 
Knowledge,  that  sleep,  doth  die  ; 
And  this  security, 

It  is  the  common  moth, 
That   eats   on    wits    and    arts,    and    (so) 
destroy  them  both. 

Are  all  the  Aonian  springs 

Dried  up  ?    lies  Thespia  waste  ? 
Doth  Clarius*  harp  want  strings, 
That  not  a  nymph  now  sings  ? 
Or  droop  they  as  disgraced, 
To  see  their  seats  and  bowers  by  chattering  pies 
defaced  ? 


If  hence  thy  silence  be, 

As  'tis  too  just  a  cause, 
Let  this  thought  quicken  thee: 
[65] 


to 


Minds  that  arc  great  and  free 

Should  not  on  fortune  pause  ; 
'Tis  crown  enough  to  virtue  still,  her  own  applause. 

What  though  the  greedy  fry 

Be  taken  with  false  baits 
Of  worded  balladry, 
And  think  it  poesy? 

That  die  with  their  conceits, 
And  only  piteous  scorn  upon  their  folly  waits. 

Then  take  in  hand  thy  lyre, 
Strike  in  thy  proper  strain, 
With  Japhet's  line  aspire 
Sol's  chariot  for  new  fire, 

To  give  the  world  again  : 
Who  aided  him,  will  thee,  the  issue  of  Jove's  brain. 

And  since  our  dainty  age, 
Cannot  endure  reproof, 
Make  not  thyself  a  page, 
To  that  strumpet  the  stage, 
But  sing  high  and  aloof, 

Safe  from  the  wolf's  black  jaw,  and  the  dull  ass's 
hoof.  —Benjonson. 

[66] 


,IVE  with  me  still,  and  all  the  meas- 
ures 
Played  to  by  the  spheres  I'll  teach 

thee; 

Let's  but  thus  dally,  all  the  pleasures 
The  moon  beholds  her  man  shall  reach 
thee. 

Dwell  in  mine  arms,  aloft  we'll  hover, 

And  see  fields  of  armies  fighting : 
Oh,  part  not  from  me !     I'll  discover 
There  all  but  books  of  fancy's  writing. 


Be  but  my  darling,  Age  to  free  thee 
From  her  curse  shall  fall  a-dying; 

Call  me  thy  empress,  Time  to  see  thee 
Shall  forget  his  art  of  flying. 

—  Thomas  Dtkktr. 

[67] 


ACK,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow ; 
Sweet    air,    blow    soft,    mount,   larks, 

aloft 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow! 
Wings    from    the    wind    to    please    her 

mind 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale,  sing, 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow ; 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  Robin-red-breast, 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow; 

And  from  each  hill,  let  music  shrill 
Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow! 

[68] 


Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 
Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow ! 

You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow ! 

—  Thomas  Htywood. 


[69] 


CO 


YE  little  birds  that  sit  and  sing 

Amidst  the  shady  valleys, 
And  see  how  Phyllis  sweetly  walks 

Within  her  garden  alleys  ; 
Go,  pretty  birds,  about  her  bower; 
Sing,  pretty  birds,  she  may  not  lower  : 
Ah  me  !    methinks  I  see  her  frown  ; 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Go,  tell  her  through  your  chirping  bills 

As  you  by  me  are  bidden, 
To  her  is  only  known  by  love 

Which  from  the  world  is  hidden. 


Go,  pretty  birds,  and  tell  her  so, 
See  that  your  notes  strain  not  too  low, 
For  still  methinks  I  see  her  frown ; 
Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 

Go,  tune  your  voices'  harmony, 

And  sing  I  am  her  lover; 
Strain  loud  and  sweet,  that  every  note 

With  sweet  content  may  move  her. 
And  she  that  hath  the  sweetest  voice, 
Tell  her  I  will  not  change  my  choice: 
Yet  still  methinks  I  see  her  frown; 

Ye  pretty  wantons,  warble. 


Oh  fly !    make  haste !  see,  see,  she  falls 

Into  a  pretty  slumber; 
Sing  round  about  her  rosy  bed, 

That  waking  she  may  wonder ; 
Say  to  her  'tis  her  lover  true, 
That  sendeth  love  to  you,  to  you; 
And  when  you  hear  her  kind  reply, 

Return  with  pleasant  warblings. 

—  Thomas  Heywood. 

[71] 


& 


EAUTY  clear  and  fair, 

Where  the  air 

Rather  like  a  perfume  dwells  ; 
Where  the  violet  and  the  rose 
Their  blue  veins  in  blush  disclose, 
And  come  to  honour  nothing  else  ; 


Where  to  live  near, 

And  planted  there, 

Is  to  live,  and  still  live  new ; 
Where  to  gain  a  favour  is 
More  than  light,  perpetual  bliss,— 

Make  me  live  by  serving  you. 

Dear,  again  back  recall 
To  this  light, 

A  stranger  to  himself  and  all. 
Both  the  wonder  and  the  story 
Shall  be  yours,  and  eke  the   glory ; 

I  am  your  servant,  and  your  thrall. 

—  Beaumont  and  Flttchtr. 
[7*3 


3Jtttocation  to 


ARE-CHARMING  Sleep,  thou  easer 

of  all  woes, 
Brother    to    Death,    sweetly    thyself 

dispose 

On  this  afflicted  prince ;  fall  like  a  cloud 
In  gentle  showers;    give  nothing  that  is 

loud 

Or  painful  to  his  slumbers  ;  —  easy,  sweet, 
And  as  a  purling   stream,  thou   son    of 

night, 
Pass    by   his   troubled   senses ;   sing   his 

pain 

Like  hollow  murmuring  wind  or  silver  rain ; 
Into  this  prince  gently,  oh,  gently  slide, 
And  kiss  him  into  slumber  like  a  bride ! 

—  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 


[73] 


to 

SING  his  praises  that  doth  keep 

Our  flocks  from  harm, 
Pan,  the  father  of  our  sheep ; 

And  arm  in  arm 
Tread  we   softly  in  a  round, 
While  the  hollow  neighboring  ground 
Fills  the  music  with  her  sound. 

Pan,  O  great  god  Pan,  to  thee 

Thus  do  we  sing : 
Thou  that  keep'st  us  chaste  and  free, 

As  the  young  spring. 
Ever  be  thy  honour  spoke, 
From  that  place  the  morn  is  broke, 
To  that  place  day  doth  unyoke ! 

—  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
[74] 


ifor  Rummer  Cfme 

Now  the  glories  of  the  year 
May  be  viewed  at  the  best. 
And  the  earth  doth  now  appear 
In  her  fairest  garments  drest: 

Sweetly  smelling  plants  and  flowers 
Do  perfume  the  garden  bowers ; 
Hill  and  valley,  wood  and  field, 
Mixed  with  pleasure  profits  yield. 

Much  is  found  where  nothing  was, 
Herds  on  every  mountain  go, 
In  the  meadows  flowery  grass 
Makes  both  milk  and  honey  flow; 
Now  each  orchard  banquets  giveth, 
Every  hedge  with  fruit  relieveth ; 
[75] 


And  on  every  shrub  and  tree 
Useful  fruits  or  berries  be. 


Walks  and  ways  which  winter  marr'd 
By  the  winds  are  swept  and  dried ; 
Moorish  grounds  are  now  so  hard 
That  on  them  we  safe  may  ride : 

Warmth  enough  the  sun  doth  lend  us, 
From  his  heat  the  shades  defend  us ; 
And  thereby  we  share  in  these 
Safety,  profit,  pleasure,  ease. 

Other  blessings,  many  more, 

At  this  time  enjoyed  may  be, 

And  in  this  my  song  therefore 

Praise  I  give,  O  Lord !    to  Thee : 
Grant  that  this  my  free  oblation 
May  have  gracious  acceptation, 

And  that  I  may  well  employ 

Everything  which  I  enjoy. 

—  George  Wither. 


[76] 


HALL  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May  — 
If  she  think  not  well  of  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 

Shall  my  silly  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind; 
Or  a  well  disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 
[77] 


Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 

Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  ? 


Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best ; 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 


'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die? 
She  that  bears  a  noble  mind 
If  not  outward  helps  she  finds, 
Thinks  what  with  them   he  would  do 
Who  without  them  dares  her  woo ; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be  ? 

[78] 


Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair ; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 
—  George  Wither. 


[79] 


arise! 

And  paint  the  sable  skies 
With  azure,  white,  and  red : 
Rouse    Memnon's   mother  from    her 

Tithon's  bed 
That    she    may    thy    career    with    roses 

spread : 
The  nightingales  thy  coming  each-where 

sing: 

Make  an  eternal  Spring  ! 
Give  life  to  this  dark  world  which  lieth 

dead; 

Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 
In  larger  locks  than  thou  wast  wont  before, 
And  emperor-like  decore 
With  diadem  of  pearl  thy  temples  fair: 
Chase  hence  the  ugly  night 
Which  serves    but  to  make    dear   thy    glorious 
light. 

[80] 


,  artee 


—  This  is  that  happy  morn, 
That  day,  long-wished  day 
Of  all  my  life  so  dark, 

(If  cruel  stars  have  not  my  rum  sworn 

And  fates  my  hopes  betray), 

Which,  purely  white,  deserves 

An  everlasting  diamond  should  it  mark. 

This  is  the  morn  should  bring  unto  this  grove 

My  Love,  to  hear  and  recompense  my  love. 

Fair  King,  who  all  preserves, 

But  show   thy  blushing  beams, 

And  thou  two  sweeter  eyes 

Shalt  see  than  those  which  by  Peneus'  streams 

Did  once  thy  heart  surprise. 

Now,  Flora,  deck  thyself  in  fairest  guise: 

If  that  ye  winds  would  hear 

A  voice  surpassing  far  Amphion's  lyre, 

Your  furious  chiding  stay  ; 

Let  Zephyr  only  breathe, 

And  with  her  tresses  play. 

—  The  winds  all  silent  are, 
And  Phoebus  in  his  chair 
Ensaffroning  sea  and  air 
Makes  vanish  every  star  : 

[81] 


,  arise 


Night  like  a  drunkard  reels 

Beyond  the    hills,  to  shun  his    flaming  wheels: 

The  fields  with  flowers  are  deck'd  in  every  hue, 

The  clouds  with  orient  gold  spangle  their  blue  ; 

Here  is  the  pleasant  place  — 

And  nothing  wanting  is,  save  She,  alas  ! 

—  William  Drummond  of  Hawthornden. 


RUST  not,  Sweet  Soul !    those  curled 

waves  of  gold 
With    gentle    tides    which    on    your 

temples  flow, 
Nor  temples  spread  with  flakes  of  virgin 

snow, 
Nor  snow  of  cheeks   with   Tyrian  grain 

enroird. 
Trust     not    those    shining    lights    which 

wrought  my  woe, 

When  first  I  did  their  burning  rays  be- 
hold; 
Nor  voice  whose   sounds    more    strange    effects 

do  show 

Than  of  the  Thracian    harper  have  been  told ! 
Look  to  this  dying  lily,  fading  rose, 
Dark  hyacinth,  of  late  whose  blushing  beams 
Made    all    the    neighbouring    herbs    and    grass 
rejoice 

[83] 


not, 

And  think  how  little  is  'twixt  life's  extremes! 
The  sweet  tyrant  that  did  kill  those  flowers 
Shall    once,  ay    me,    not    spare    that    Spring    of 

yours. 

—  William  Drummond. 


[84] 


of 


MARINA'S  gone  and  now  sit  I 

As  Philomela  on  a  thorn, 
Turned  out  of  nature's  livery, 

Mirthless,  alone,  and  all  forlorn  : 
Only  she  sings  not,  while  my  sorrow  can 

Breathe  forth  such  notes  as  suit  a  dying  swan, 

• 

So  shuts  the  marigold  her  leaves 

At  the  departure  of  the  sun  ; 
So  from  the  honey-suckle  sheaves 

The  bee  goes  when  the  day  is  done  ; 

[85] 


£>ong  of 

So  sits  the  turtle -when  she  is  but  one, 
And  so  all  woe,  as  I,  since  she  is  gone. 

To  some  few  birds  kind  nature  hath 
Made  all  the  summer  as  one  day ; 

Which  once  enjoy'd,  cold  winter's  wrath, 
As  night,  they  sleeping  pass  away. 

Those  happy  creatures  are,  they  know  not  yet, 

The  pain  to  be  deprived,  or  to  forget. 

I  oft  have  heard  men  say  there  be 
Some,  that  with  confidence  profess 

The  helpful  Art  of  Memory; 

But  could  they  teach  forgetfulness, 

I'd  learn,  and  try  what  further  art  could  do 

To  make  me  love  her  and  forget  her  too. 

Sad  melancholy,  that  persuades 

Men  from  themselves,  to  think  they  be 
Headless,  or  other  body's  shades, 

Hath  long  and  bootless  dwelt  with  me. 
For  could  I  think  she  some  idea  were 
I  still  might  love,  forget,  and  have  her  here. 

[86] 


&ong  of 


For  such  she  is  not  ;    nor  would  I 
For  twice  as  many  torments  more, 

As  her  bereaved  company 

Hath  brought  to  those  I  felt  before  ; 

For  then  no  future  time  might  hap  to  know 

That  she  deserv'd,  or  I  did  love  her  so. 

Ye  hours  then,  but  as  minutes  be  ! 

Though  so  I  shall  be  sooner  old, 
Till  I  those  lovely  graces  see, 

Which  but  in  her,  can  none  behold. 
Then  be  an  age  !     That  we  may  never  try 
More  grief  in  parting,  but  grow  old  and  die. 

—  William  Browne. 


[87] 


SK  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose  ; 
For  in  your  beauties  orient  deep 
These    flowers,    as    in    their    causes, 
sleep. 


Ask  me  no  more  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day ; 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
These  powers  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 
[88] 


me  no  more  totyere 


be0toto$" 


Ask  me  no  more  where  those  stars  light 
That  downwards  fall  in  dead  of  night; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more  if  east  or  west 
The  phoenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 

—  Thomas  Carew. 


[89] 


Co  Celfa 


OU  that  think  love  can  convey 

No  other  way, 

But  through  the  eyes,  into  the  heart, 
His  fatal  dart, 


Close  up  those  casements  and  but  hear 

This  siren  sing, 

And  on  the  wing 
Of  her  sweet  voice  it  shall  appear 
That  love  can  enter  at  the  ear. 

Then  unvail  your  eyes,  behold 

The  curious  mould 

Where  that  voice  dwells,  and  as  we  know, 
When  the  cocks  crow, 
We  freely  may 
Gaze  on  the  day, 

So  may  you  when  the  music's  done, 
Awake  and  see  the  rising  sun. 

—  Thomas  Carew. 


E  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 
Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 

Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 
Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires ; 

As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires  :  — 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 
Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

—  Thomas  Carew. 


[9'] 


in  t^e 


SAW  fair  Chloris  walk  alone 
When     feather' d     rain     came     softly 

down,  — 

Then  Jove  descended  from  his  tower 
To  court  her  in  a  silver  shower ; 
The  wanton  snow  flew  to  her  breast, 
Like  little  birds  into  their  nest; 
But  overcome  with  whiteness  there, 
For  grief  it  thaw'd  into  a  tear; 
Then,  falling  down  her  garment  hem, 
To  deck  her,  froze  into  a  gem. 

—  Thomas  Carew. 


fn 


SWEET  disorder  in  the  dress 
Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness :  — 
A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction, — 
An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 
Enthrals  the  crimson  stomacher, — 
A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbands  to  flow  confusedly, — 
A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat, — 
A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility, — 
Do  more  bewitch  me,  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

—Robert  Her  rick. 


[93] 


ER  lamp  the  glow-worm  lend  thee ! 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee  ! 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee  ! 

No  Will-o'-the-Wisp  mislight  thee ! 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worm  bite  thee ! 

But  on  !    on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there's  none  to  affright  thee ! 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber ! 

What  though  the  moon  does  slumber? 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 

Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 
[94] 


2flulia 


Then,  Julia!    let  me  woo  thee 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me: 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soul  Til  pour  into  thee. 

—  Robert  Herrick. 


[95] 


Co 


YE  have  been  fresh  and  green, 
Ye  have  been  filled  with  flowers  ; 

And  ye  the  walks  have  been 

Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours, 

You  have  beheld  how  they 
With  wicker  arks  did  come 

To  kiss  and  bear  away 
The  richer  cowslips  home. 

You've  heard  them  sweetly  sing, 
And  seen  them  in  a  round  ; 

Each  virgin,  like  a  Spring, 
With  honeysuckles  crowned. 

£96] 


But  now  we  see  none  here 
Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread 

And  with  dishevell'd  hair 

Adorn'd  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  un thrifts,  having  spent 
Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 

You're  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poor  estate  alone. 

—  Robert  Herrick. 


[97] 


Co  t^e  ®iv$in$,  to  mafee  muc^  of  Cfme 

GATHER  ye  rosebuds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying : 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting, 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times,  still  succeed  the  former. 
[98] 


tijr  Virgins,  to  make  mucij  of  time 


Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And  while  ye  may,  go  marry: 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

—Robert  Herrick. 


[99] 


Co 


mm 


O,  happy  Rose,  and  interwove 
With  other  flowers,  bind  my  Love 
Tell  her  too,  she  must  not  be 
Longer  flowing,  longer  free, 
That  so  oft  has  fetter' d  me. 


Say,  if  she's  fretful,  I  have  bands 
Of  pearl  and  gold,  to  bind  her  hands 
Tell  her,  if  she  struggle  still, 
I  have  myrtle  rods  at  will, 
For  to  tame,  though  not  to  kill. 

Take  thou  my  blessing  thus,  and  go 
And  tell  her  this,  —  but  do  not  so !  — 
Lest  a  handsome  anger  fly 
Like  a  lightning  from  her  eye, 
And  burn  thee  up,  as  well  as  I. 

^Robert  Herrick. 

[100] 


Co 


AIR  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon : 
As  yet  the  early-rising  Sun 

Has  not  attained  his  noon. 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 


We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 
We  have  as  short  a  Spring; 

As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you,  or  any  thing. 


We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

,Away 

Like  to  the  Summer's  rain ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

—Robert  Herrick. 


[102] 


Coritma'g 


ET  up,  get  up  for  shame  !   The  bloom- 
ing morn 
Upon    her   wings    presents    the    god 

unshorn. 

See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted    colours    through    the 

air : 

Get  up,  sweet  Slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bow'd  toward 

the  east, 

Above  an  hour  since  ;  yet  you  not  drest, 
Nay !    not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns :    'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, — 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day, 
Spring,  sooner  than  the  lark,  to  fetch  in  May. 


Cormna'0  Raping 

Rise;   and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 
To  come  forth,  like  the  Spring-time,  fresh  and 

green, 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 
For  jewels  for  your  gown,  or  hair : 
Fear  not ;    the  leaves  will  strew 
Gems  in  abundance  upon  you : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept : 
Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 
Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night : 
And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 
Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till  you  come  forth.     Wash,  dress,  be  brief  in 

praying : 
Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a  Maying. 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come ;    and  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street ;  each  street  a  park 
Made  green,  and  trimm'd  with  trees  ;  see  how 
Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 
Or  branch :  Each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this 
An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove ; 

[104] 


Cotfnna'0 


As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 
Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street, 
And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't? 
Come,  we'll  abroad  :   and  let's  obey 
The  proclamation  made  for  May  : 

And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying; 

But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy,  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 
A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 
Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 
Some  have  despatch'd  their  cakes  and  cream, 
Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  woo'd,  and  plighted 

troth, 

And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth  : 
Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given  ; 
Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  : 
Many  a  glance  too  has  been  sent 
From  out  the  eye,  Love's  firmament  : 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This    night,  and  locks  pick'd  :  —  Yet  we're  not 
a  Maying. 

£'°5] 


Corinna'tf 


—  Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime  ; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time  ! 
We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 
Before  we  know  our  liberty. 
Our  life  is  short  ;   and  our  days  run 
As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun  :  — 
And  as  a  vapour,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again  : 
So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 
A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade  ; 
All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drown'd  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna  !    come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

—  Robert  Herrick. 


[106] 


Co 


HUT    not    so    soon !     the    dull-eyed 

Night 

Has  not  as  yet  begun, 

To  make  a  seizure  on  the  light 

Or  to  seal  up  the  sun. 

No  marigolds  yet  closed  are, 
No  shadows  great  appear, 

Nor  doth  the  early  shepherds'  star, 
Shine  like  a  spangle  here. 

Stay  but  until  my  Julia  close, 

Her  life-begetting  eye; 
And  let  the  whole  world  then  dispose, 

Itself  to  live  or  die. 

—  Robert  Herrick. 


Co 


mat  commanu  Ijim 


BID  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 

Thy  Protestant  to  be: 
Or  bid  me  love,  and  I  will  give 

A  loving  heart  to  thee. 

A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 

A  heart  as  sound  and  free 
As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find, 

That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 

Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay, 

To  honour  thy  decree  : 
Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 

And't  shall  do  so  for  thee. 


Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep 

While  I  have  eyes  to  see : 
And  having  none,  yet  I  will  keep 

A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 

Bid  me  despair,  and  I'll  despair, 

Under  that  cypress  tree: 
Or  bid  me  die,  and  I  will  dare 

E'en  Death,  to  die  for  thee. 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me, 
And  hast  command  of  every  part, 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 

—  Robert  Her  rick. 


[109] 


Co  flDne  gating  stye  t»asi  €>ID 


ELL   me   not   Time  hath   played   the 

thief 

Upon  her  beauty !    my  belief 
Might  have  been  mock'd,  and  I  have 

been 

An  heretic,  if  I  had  not  seen, 
My  Mistress  is  still  fair  to  me, 
And  now  I  all  those  graces  see 
That  did  adorn  her  virgin  brow : 
Her  eye  hath  the  same  flame  in's  now 
To  kill  or  save,  —  the  chemist's  fire 
Equally  burns,  so  my  desire ; 
Not  any  rosebud  less  within 
Her  cheek ;   the  same  snow  on  her  chin ; 
Her  voice  that  heavenly  music  bears 
First  charmed  my  soul,  and  in  my  ears 
[no] 


&nt 


toatf 


Did  leave  it  trembling;    her  lips  are 

The  self-same  lovely  twins  they  were  ;  — 

Often  so  many  years  I  miss 

No  flower  in  all  my  Paradise; 

Time,  I  despise  thy  rage  and  thee,  — 

Thieves  do  not  always  thrive,  I  see. 

—  James  Shirley. 


description  of  Castara 


IKE  the  violet,  which  alone 
Prospers  in  some  happy  shade; 
My  Castara  lives  unknowne, 
To  no  looser  eye  betray'd, 

For  shee's  to  herselfe  untrue^ 
Who  delights  i*  th'  publicke  view. 


Such  is  her  beauty,  as  no  arts 
Have  enriched  with  borrowed  grace, 
Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts, 
For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 
Folly  boasted  a  glorious  blood, 
She  is  noblest  being  good. 

[112] 


Description  of  Cantata 

Cautious,  she  knew  never  yet 

What  a  wanton  courtship  meant; 

Nor  speaks  bond  to  boast  her  wit, 

In  her  silence  eloquent. 

Of  herself  survey  she  takes 

But  'tweene  men  no  difference  makes, 

She  obeys  with  speedy  will 

Her  grave  parents'  wise  commands, 

And  so  innocent  that  ill, 

She  nor  acts,  nor  understands. 

Women's  feet  runne  still  astray, 
If  once  to  ill  they  know  the  way. 

She  sails  by  that  rocke,  the  court, 
Where  oft  honour  splits  her  mast: 
And  retir'dnesse  thinks  the  port 
Where  her  fame  may  anchor  cast. 
Vertue  safely  cannot  sit 
Where  vice  is  enthron'd  for  wit 

She  holds  that  day's  pleasure  best, 
Where  sin  waits  not  on  delight; 
» 


Description  of  Catftara 

Without  maske,  or  ball,  or  feast, 
Sweetly  spends  a  winter's  night. 

O'er  that  darknesse,  whence  is  thrust 
Prayer  and  sleepe,  oft  governs  lust. 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climbe, 

While  wild  passions  captive  lie; 

And  each  article  of  time 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  Heaven  flic: 
All  her  vowes  religious  be, 
All  her  love  she  vowes  to  me. 

—  William  Habbington. 


["4] 


€>n  a  dfttfile 


HAT    which    her   slender  waist   con- 
fined 

Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind: 
No    monarch    but    would    give    his 

crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer : 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass !    and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair : 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  Sun  goes  round. 

—  Edmund  Watter. 


O,  lovely  Rose ! 
Tell   her,   that  wastes  her  time  and 

me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired: 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 


,  lofcety 


Then  die!   that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  : 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair  I 

—Edmund  Waller. 


C»7] 


Co 


SINGING    A    SONG    OF    HIS    OWN    COMPOSITION 


HLORIS,  yourself  you  so  excel, 

When  you  vouchsafe  to  breathe 

my  thought, 

That  like  a  spirit,  with  this  spell, 
Of    my    own    teaching,    I     am 
caught. 


That  eagle's  fate  and  mine  are  one, 

Which  on  the  shaft  that  made  him 
die, 

Espy'd  a  feather  of  his  own, 

Wherewith  he  wont  to  soar  so  high. 


Had  Echo  with  so  sweet  a  grace, 

Narcissus*  loud  complaints  returned, 

Not  for  reflection  of  his  face, 

But  of  his  voice,  the  boy  had  burned. 

—  Edmund  Waller. 
[118] 


TAY,  Phoebus!  stay! 

The    world    to    which    you     fly    so 
fast, 

Conveying  day. 
From     us     to     them,    can    pay    your 

haste 
With    no    such    object    nor    salute    your 

rise, 

With   no   such  wonder  as  De  Morney's 
eyes. 


Well  does  this  prove 

The  error  of  those  antique  books 

Which  made  you  move. 
About  the  world  :    Her  charming  looks 
Would  fix  your  beams,  and  make  it  ever  day, 
Did  not  the  rolling  earth  snatch  her  away. 

—  Edmund  Waller. 


C"9] 


Co  f  lafoia 


IS  not  your  beauty  can  engage 

My  wary  heart : 
The  sun,  in  all  his  pride  and  rage, 

Has  not  that  art ! 

And  yet  he  shines  as  bright  as  you, 
If  brightness  could  our  souls  subdue. 

'Tis  not  the  pretty  things  you  say, 

Nor  those  you  write, 
Which   can   make   Thyrsis'   heart  your 
prey: 

For  that  delight, 

The  graces  of  a  well-taught  mind, 
In  some  of  our  own  sex  we  find. 


jFlabta 


No,  Flavia  !    'tis  your  love  I  fear  ; 

Love's  surest  darts, 
Those  which  so  seldom  fail  him,  are 

Headed  with  hearts  : 
Their  very  shadows  make  us  yield; 
Dissemble  well,  and  win  the  field  ! 

—  Edmund  Waller. 


[121] 


HOE'ER  she  be, 
That  not  impossible  She 
That   shall   command   my    heart    and 
me ; 

Where'er  she  lie, 

Lock'd  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny : 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  tread  our  earth  ; 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  snine : 


«  Whoe'er  stye  be" 

—  Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 

Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 

And  be  ye  call'd,  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  beauty 
That  owes  not  all  its  duty 
To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie: 

Something  more  than 
Taffata  or  tissue  can, 
Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

A  face  that's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  commend  the  rest: 

A  face  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

Sydnasan  showers 
Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 
Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers, 
[1*3] 


be 


Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  day's  forehead  bright 

Or  give  down  to  the  wings  of  night. 

Soft  silken  hours, 

Open  suns,  shady  bowers; 

'Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow  : 

Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

Life,  that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  his  end, 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  '  Welcome,  friend/ 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes  ;  and  I  wish  -  no  more. 


"  Whoe'er  stye  be" 

Now,  if  Time  knows 

That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 

Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows ; 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see: 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

'Tis  She,  and  here 

Lo !     I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  wishes'  cloudy  character. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory, 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye ; 

Be  ye  my  fictions :  —  but  her  story. 

—  Richard  Crashaw* 


C'»s] 


I3allat)  upon  a 


TELL    thee,  Dick,   where    I    have 

been, 
Where  I  the  rarer  things  have  seen ; 

O,  things  without  compare ! 
Such  sights  again  cannot  be  found 
In  any  place  on  English  ground, 

Be  it  at  wake  or  fair. 


At  Charing-Cross,  hard  by  the  way, 
Where   we    (thou   know'st)   do   sell   our 

hay, 

There  is  a  house  with  stairs ; 
And  there  did  I  see  coming  down 
Such  folk  as  are  not  in  our  town, 
Forty  at  least,  in  pairs. 
[126] 


ffiallaa  upon  a 


Amongst  the  rest,  one  pest'lent  fine 
(His  beard  no  bigger  though  than  thine) 

Walked  on  before  the  rest  : 
Our  landlord  looks  like  nothing  to  him  : 
The  King  (God  bless  him)  'twould  undo  him, 

Should  he  go  still  so  drest. 

At  Course-a-Park,  without  all  doubt, 
He  should  have  first  been  taken  out 

By  all  the  maids  i'  th'  town: 
Though  lusty  Roger  there  had  been, 
Or  little  George  upon  the  Green, 

Or  Vincent  of  the  Crown. 

But  wot  you  what  ?    the  youth  was  going 
To  make  an  end  of  all  his  wooing  : 

The  parson  for  him  stay'd  : 
Yet  by  his  leave  (for  all  his  haste) 
He  did  not  so  much  wish  all  past 

(Perchance),  as  did  the  maid. 

The  maid  (and  thereby  hangs  a  tale), 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 
C«7] 


#  liBallaa  upon  a  Weaning 

Could  ever  yet  produce : 
No  grape,  that's  kindly  ripe,  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Would  not  stay  on,  which  they  did  bring, 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck : 
And  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must) 
It  looked  like  the  great  collar  (just) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  fear'd  the  light : 
And  O,  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison, 

(Who  sees  them  is  undone,) 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
[128] 


HBallaD  upon  a 


Such  as  are  on  a  Gathering  pear 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 


Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin 

(Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly) ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak, 
Thou'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break, 

That  they  might  passage  get ; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better, 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 

Just  in  the  nick  the  cook  knocked  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey ; 
Each  serving-man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
Marched  boldly  up,  like  our  trained  band, 

Presented,  and  away. 
K  [129] 


Bailati  upon  a 


When  all  the  meat  was  on  the  table, 
What  man  of  knife  or  teeth  was  able 

To  stay  to  be  entreated  ? 
And  this  the  very  reason  was, 
Before  the  parson  could  say  grace, 

The  company  was  seated. 

The  business  of  the  kitchen's  great, 
For  it  is  fit  that  men  should  eat; 

Nor  was  it  then  denied  : 
Passion  o'  me,  how  I  run  on  ! 
There's  that  that  would  be  thought  upon 

(I  trow)  besides  the  bride. 

Now  hats  fly  off,  and  youths  carouse  ; 
Healths  first  go  round,  and  then  the  house, 

The  bride's  came  thick  and  thick  : 
And  when  'twas  named  another's  health, 
Perhaps  he  made  it  hers  by  stealth; 

And  who  could  help  it,  Dick? 

On  the  sudden  up  they  rise  and  dance  ; 
Then  sit  again  and  sigh  and  glance  : 


JiBallaD  upon  a 


They  dance  again  and  kiss  : 
Thus  several  ways  the  time  did  pass, 
Whilst  ev'ry  woman  wished  her  place, 

And  every  man  wished  his. 

—  Sir  John  Suckling. 


['3'] 


J)  HY  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  ? 
Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  ? 


Quit,  quit,  for  shame!    this  will  not  move. 

This  cannot  take  her ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : 

The  D— 1  take  her!    • 

—  Sir  John  Suckling. 

['3*3 


Constancy 


UT  upon  it,  I  have  loved 

Three  whole  days  together; 
And  am  like  to  love  thee  more, 
If  it  proves  good  weather. 


Time  shall  moult  away  his  wings, 

Ere  he  shall  discover 
In  the  whole  wide  world  again 

Such  a  constant  lover. 

But  the  spite  on't  is,  no  praise 

Is  due  at  all  to  me: 
Love  with  me  had  made  no  stays, 

Had  it  any  been  but  she. 

Had  it  any  been  but  she, 

And  that  very  face, 
There  had  been  at  least  ere  this 

A  dozen  dozen  in  her  place. 

—  Sir  John  Suckling. 


prithee  senD  me  uacfc  mt 


PRITHEE  setxt  me  back  my  heart, 
Since  I  cannot  have  thine : 

For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  part, 
Why  then  shouldst  thou  have 


miner 

Yet  now  I  think  on't,  let  it  lie; 

To  find  it  were  in  vain, 
For  thou'st  a  thief  in  either  eye 

Would  steal  it  back  again. 

Why  should  two  hearts  in  one  breast  lie, 
And  not  yet  lodge  together? 
C'34] 


"31  pritftw  *nta  mr  bacfe  mp  ieart 


O  Love  !    where  is  thy  sympathy, 
If  thus  our  breasts  thou  sever? 

For  love  is  such  a  mystery, 

I  cannot  find  it  out  : 
For  when  I  think  I'm  best  resolved, 

I  then  am  in  most  doubt. 

Then  farewell  care,  and  farewell  woe, 

I  will  no  longer  pine; 
For  Til  believe  I  have  her  heart 

As  much  as  she  has  mine. 

-—Sir  John  Suckling. 


C'35] 


Co  aityea  from  prison 


HEN  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetter' d  to  her  eye, 
The  Gods  that  wanton  in  the  air 
Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free- 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 


aitljca  from 


When,  (like  committed  linnets),  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  King  ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  ; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

—  Richard  Lovelace. 


[«37] 


Co  Lucagta,  going  betonti  tljc 


F  to  be  absent  were  to  be 

Away  from  thee; 
Or  that  when  I  am  gone 
You  or  I  were  alone; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind,  or  swallowing 
wave. 

But  I'll  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 

To  swell  my  sail, 
Or  pay  a  tear  to  'suage 
The  foaming  blue-god's  rage; 
For  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,  I'm  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 

Though  seas  and  land  betwixt  us  both, 
Our  faith  and  troth, 


Jlucatftt, 


Like  separated  souls, 
All  time  and  space  controls  : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  greet  as  Angels  greet. 

So  then  we  do  anticipate 

Our  after-fate 
And  are  alive  i'  the  skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  unconfined 
In  Heaven,  their  earthly  bodies  left  behind. 

—  Richard  Lovelace. 


[»39] 


Co  HucajstSj  on  going  to  t^e 


ELL  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 


True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

—  Richard  Lovelace. 


H,  thou  that  swing'st  upon  the  waving 
.     ear 

Of  some  well-filled  oaten  beard, 
Drunk    every    night    with    some    de- 
licious tear 

Dropt  thee  from   heaven   where   thou 
wert  reared: 

The  joys  of  earth  and  air  are  thine  en- 
tire, 
That  with  thy  feet  and  wings  dost  hop 

and  fly, 

And  when  thy  poppy  works,  thou  dost  retire, 
To  thy  carved  acorn-bed  to  lie. 

Up  with  the  day,  the  Sun  thou  welcom'st  then, 
Sport'st  in  the  gilt  plaits  of  his  beams, 

And  all  these  merry  days  mak'st  merry  men, 
Thyself,  and  melancholy  streams. 


But  ah,  the  sickle!    golden  ears  are  cropped; 

Ceres  and  Bacchus  bid  good  night; 
Sharp    frosty    fingers     all     your    flowers     have 
topped, 

And  what    scythes    spared,   winds   shave   off 

quite. 

—  Richard  LovtUtct. 


THERE  is  a  Garden  in  her  face, 
Where  Roses  and  white  Lilies  grow; 
A  heav'nly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  flow. 
There  Cherries  grow  which  none  may  buy 
Till  Cherry  ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  Cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  Orient  Pearl  a  double  row ; 

Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  Rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow. 

Yet  them  nor  Peer  nor  Prince  can  buy 

Till  Cherry  ripe  themselves  do  cry. 


Her  Eyes  like  Angels  watch  them  still; 
Her  Brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threatning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 
All  that  attempt,  with  eye  or  hand, 
Those  sacred  Cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  Cherry  ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

—  Thomas  Campion. 


C«44] 


HOUGH   you  are  young,  and  I   am 

old, 
Though    your    veins    hot,   and    my 

blood  cold, 

Though  youth  is  moist,  and  age  is  dry; 
Yet  embers  live,  when  flames  do  die. 

The  tender  graft  is  easily  broke, 
But  who  shall  shake  the  sturdy  Oak? 
You  are  more  fresh  and  fair  than  I ; 
Yet  stubs  do  live,  when  flowers  do  die. 


Thou,  that  thy  youth  dost  vainly  boast, 
Know  buds  arc  soonest  nipt  with  frost: 
Think  that  thy  fortune  still  doth  cry, 
Thou  fool,  to-morrow  thou  must  die! 

—  Thomas  Campion. 


['45] 


CARE  not  for  these  Ladies, 
That  must  be  wooed  and  prayed: 
Give  me  kind  Amarillis, 
The  wanton  country  maid. 
Nature  art  disdaineth, 
Her  beauty  is  her  own. 

Her  when  we  court  and  kiss, 
She  cries,  Forsooth,  let  go  : 
But  when  we  come  where  comfort  is 
She  never  will  say  No. 

If  I  love  Amarillis, 

She  gives  me  fruit  and  flowers : 

But  if  we  love  these  Ladies, 

We  must  give  golden  showers. 
Give  them  gold  that  sell  love, 
Give  me  the  Nut-brown   lass, 


0martlU0 

Who,  when  we  court  and  kiss, 
She  cries,  Forsooth,  let  go : 
But  when  we  come  where  comfort  is, 
She  never  will  say  No. 

These  Ladies  must  have  pillows, 
And  beds  by  strangers  wrought; 
Give  me  a  Bower  of  willows, 
Of  moss  and  leaves  unbought, 
And  fresh  Amarillis, 
With  milk  and  honey  fed ; 

Who,  when  we  court  and  kiss, 

She  cries,  Forsooth,  let  go : 

But  when  we  come  where  comfort  is, 

She  never  will  say  No ! 

—  Thomas  Campion. 


C'47] 


HERE  she  her  sacred  bower  adorns, 

The  Rivers  clearly  flow ; 
The  groves  and  meadows   swell  with 

flowers 

The  winds  all  gently  blow. 
Her  Sun-like  beauty  shines  so  fair, 

Her  Spring  can  never  fade : 
Who  then  can  blame  the  life  that  strives 
To  harbour  in  her  shade? 

Her  grace  I  sought,  her  love  I  wooed, 

Her  love  though  I  obtain; 
No  time,  no  toil,  no  vow,  no  faith,- 

Her  wished  grace  can  gain. 
[148] 


botoer 


Yet  truth  can  tell  my  heart  is  hers, 

And  her  will  I  adore  ; 
And  from  that  love  when  I  depart, 

Let  heav'n  view  me  no  more! 


Her  roses  with  my  praise  shall  spring; 

And  when  her  trees  I  praise, 
Their  boughs  shall  blossom,  mellow  fruit 

Shall  strew  her  pleasant  ways. 
The  words  of  hearty  zeal  have  power 

High  wonders  to  effect; 
O  why  should  then  her  princely  ear 

My  words,  or  zeal,  neglect  ? 


If  she  my  faith  misdeems,  or  worth, 

Woe  worth  my  hapless  fate ! 
For  though  time  can  my  truth  reveal, 

That  time  will  come  too  late. 
And  who  can  glory  in  the  worth, 

That  cannot  yield  him  grace  ? 
Content,  in  ev'rything  is  not, 

Nor  joy  in  ev'ry  place. 
['49  3 


stye  ijer  aactea  botoer  afcorn* 


But  from  her  bower  of  Joy  since  I 

Must  now  excluded  be, 
And  she  will  not  relieve  my  cares, 

Which  none  can  help  but  she; 
My  comfort  in  her  love  shall  dwell, 

Her  love  lodge  in  my  breast, 
And  though  not  in  her  bower,  yet  I 

Shall  in  her  temple  rest. 

—  Thomas  Campion. 


HE  man  of  life  upright, 

Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 
From  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thought  of  vanity ; 

The  man  whose  silent  days, 
In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 

Whom  hopes  cannot  delude 
Nor  sorrow  discontent; 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 
Nor  armour  for  defence, 

Nor  secret  vaults  to  flie 
From  thunder's  violence; 


man  of  life  upright 


He  only  can  behold 

With  unaffrighted  eyes 
The  horrors  of  the  deep 

The  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus,  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 

He  makes  the  heav'n  his  book, 
His  wisdom  heav'nly  things; 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 
His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 

The  earth  his  sober  Inn 
And  quiet  Pilgrimage. 

—  Thomas  Campion 


HE  peaceful  western  wind 
The  winter  storms  hath  tam'd, 
And  nature  in  each  kind 
The  kind  heat  hath  inflam'd : 
The  forward  buds  so  sweetly  breathe 

Out  of  their  earthy  bowers, 
That    heav'n    which    views    their    pomp 

beneath, 
Would  fain  be  deckt  with  flowers. 

See  how  the  morning  smiles 
On  her  bright  eastern  hill, 
And  with  soft  steps  beguiles 
Them  that  lie  slumbring  still ! 

The  music-loving  birds  are  come 
From  cliffs  and  rocks  unknown, 

To  see  the  trees  and  briers  bloom 
That  late  were  overflown. 
['53] 


peaceful  toe&tern  tomb" 

What  Saturn  did  destroy, 

Love's  Queen  revives  again; 

And  now  her  naked  boy 

Doth  in  the  fields  remain, 
Where  he  such  pleasing  change  doth  view 

In  every   living  thing, 
As  if  the  world  were  born  anew 

To  gratify  the  Spring. 

If  all  things  life  present, 

Why  die  my  comforts  then  ? 

Why  suffers  my  content? 

Am  I  the  worst  of  men  ? 
O  beauty,  be  not  thou  accus'd 

Too  justly  in  this  case ! 
Unkindly  if  true  love  be  us'd, 

'Twill  yield  thee  little  grace. 

—  Robert  Campion. 


[•54] 


Y    sweetest    Lesbia,    let    us    live    and 

love : 

And  though  the  sager  sort  our  deeds 
reprove, 

Let   us    not   way   them:   heaven's   great 
lamps  do  dive 

Into  their  west,  and    straight   again    re- 
vive ; 

But  soon  as  once  set  is  our  little  light, 

Then    must    we   sleep    one    ever-during 
night. 


If  all  would  lead  their  lives  in  love  like  me, 
Then   bloody   swords   and   armour   should   not 

be; 
No  drum  nor   trumpet   peaceful   sleeps  should 

move, 

['55] 


smmrst  iirsbia,  let  us?  lite  anU  lobe" 


Unless  alar'  me  came  from  the  camp  of  love  : 
But    fools     do    live,     and    waste     their     little 

light, 
And  seek  with  pain  their  ever-during  night. 

When  timely  death  my  life  and  fortune  ends, 
Let    not    my    hearse    be   vext  with    mourning 

friends  ; 

But  let  all  lovers,  rich  in  triumph,  come 
And    with     sweet    pastimes  grace    my     happy 

tomb: 

And,  Lesbia,  close  up  thou  my  little  light, 
And  crown  with  love  my  ever-during  night. 

—  Robert  Campion. 


IGHT   as  well   as   brightest  day  hath 

her  delight, 
Let  us  then  with  mirth  and   music 

deck  the  night. 
Never  did  glad  day  such  store 

Of  joy  to  night  bequeath : 
Her  Stars  then  adore, 

Both  in  Heav'n,  and  here  beneath. 

Love  and  beauty,  mirth  and  music  yield 

true  joys, 
Though  the  cynics  in  their  folly  count  them 

toys. 
Raise  your  spirits  ne'er  so  high, 

They  will  be  apt  to  fall: 
None  brave  thoughts  envy, 

Who  had    ere  brave  thought  at  all. 
['57] 


trap" 

Joy  is   the   sweet   friend   of  life,  the   nurse   of 

blood, 

Patron  of  all  health,  and  fountain  of  all  good  : 
Never  may  joy  hence  depart, 

But  all  your  thoughts  attend ; 
Nought  can  hurt  the  heart, 

That  retains  so  sweet  a  friend. 

—  Robert  Campion. 


C'58] 


l//f'l!^  ^~3k\ 


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